


Prodigal Son

by Aillis



Series: Sins of the Father [1]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Also with mentions of, And Romance, But plenty of Dante and Trish sibling-ish glory, But probably mostly angst, Dante/Lady - Freeform, Eva - Freeform, Gonna be some foul language because Nero is a potty mouth, M/M, Maybe some humor and fluff, Not related because fuck Capcom really, Probably only implied sexy times too, Probably slight mentions of unrequited, Slowly built up if I have the tolerance to write it all out, Sparda - Freeform, Vergil probably, Yeah it's another one of those, unestablished relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-05-31 04:31:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6455956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aillis/pseuds/Aillis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dante continues having to clean up the mess his father left behind, but with added help this time around. Eventual Dante/Nero.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of a warm up/intro chapter, so it's a bit tedious, I know. The next chapter will hopefully be posted soon and be considerably more exciting.

There was something eerily final about stepping foot in that room.

It was just as dingy as the rest of the old building, not that Nero could bring himself to mind. Yellowed walls could be given new life with a fresh coat of paint and the junk that heaped upon the floor, some of it boxed, some of it not, could be sorted through and (the partial demon thought) probably thrown away in time. Anything Dante couldn't bother to keep in a room he actually used probably wouldn't be missed too much.

Dante. For once the thought of someone other than Kyrie allowed for the partial, slow dissipation of tension in the youth's shoulders. 

The ruined concert hall had been the last Nero had seen of the veteran slayer in Fortuna, sure. It'd been a dramatic enough departure, the elder wishing him well in life with little more than a silent, almost dismissive gesture, retreating into the sunset with that lady, his partner... only for the former Holy Knight to find the business card sat upon his bed at Credo and Kyrie's home, carrying a fainter variation of Dante's gasoline and booze and pizza scents all mingling into one. Yeah, it sounded unpleasant. It'd actually grown to be comforting, but it wasn't important.

**_Devil May Cry_** it said in big bold letters, with Dante's name imprinted in smaller letters and a number and address to accompany it. He'd stared at it for the longest time and wondered what Dante had considered it, a silent invitation or a covert dare. Fortuna was, more or less, finished with its demon business; the Order crumbled easily without its ringleaders there to fix the mess the devil hunters had left in their wake. Sanctus, dead. Agnus, dead. Credo... dead. At least the latter had gotten a funeral.

He was still like a brother to Nero, even if he'd neglected to allow the young knight a place to stay in their _shiny new home_ once Credo had become an officer in the Order of the Sword. But he'd let Nero keep the old place, the little shack (or more like a broom closet compared to the nice place Credo and Kyrie had upgraded to) and Nero had come to appreciate it. Ever since his first kiss shared with the woman, older than him by the way but still subject to her brother's solemn over-protectiveness, that inner demon of his made sure to give him an earful about a wide range of uncomfortable topics, from 'claiming' her to moving on and finding a more suitable 'mate'... the word made Nero cringe.

Nevertheless, he'd stayed in that old house even in the months following Credo's demise. When the elder had lived, it had been both a begrudging respect of his wishes to keep his distance from Kyrie and a lack of enthusiasm over the ideal of pissing him off, despite Nero's confidence that he could've bested Credo in a fight. But after everything, it seemed wrong to have gone against his word anyway. The man was dead, but the house was still his. He hadn't a single right to be there, whatever Kyrie insisted notwithstanding. 

Even still. The island country could once more relish the quaint peace and harmony afforded to such an isolated little place, no longer the target of power-lusting human-turned-demons. The rebuilding effort, though it seemed considerably little had actually been damaged, had proven effective in distracting folk from the demise of their leaders and, eventually, things... had begun to carry on about normally.

It was too quiet, though, all too quiet for the young hotheaded hunter who'd finally experienced true adrenaline, and the rush of real battle. The efforts of reconstruction had distracted him too for a brief time but, now... he could only glance at his right arm, perhaps one of few reminders of the hardships now in Fortuna's past, and think it was a life no longer fit for him. Kyrie had seemed to eventually, reluctantly, agree, understanding without a doubt the implications of the partial-breed revealing his possession of the business card to her. But she'd said she was happy for him, in the end. He believed her wholeheartedly, too.

There was a bed, at least. The room needed major work and to get to its center Nero had to slog through and hop over endless mounds of crap and knick knacks, but a bed was a bed, right? Less work, in the end. Brown boots took their time in clearing a path, carefully nudging objects to the side as if fearing that startling the mountain of objects too much would send it all crashing down to bury him. His duffel bag, containing what few clothes he'd deemed decent enough to be worth bringing with him, landed with a hard and muffled _thump_ on the bed and sent small motes of dust swirling up from the comforter, but he couldn't care; the fatigue from the long boat ride made sure of that. He plummeted, landing on the mattress in a graceless flop and practically deflated, taut muscles relaxing, and he expelled a sigh through flared nostrils.

He could hear Dante speaking through the floor, presumably over the phone. What, exactly, had inclined the veteran to let him crash there, Nero didn't know and doubted he ever would know. They'd clashed often in Fortuna but the end of their escapades against the Order saw the two forming a... sort of bond. A grudging respect. They were capable hunters with their own abilities and specialties and, by the end, had managed to pull their heads out of their asses long enough to work together for a common goal, or some shit like that. Even still, to find the elder's invitation (dare? He still didn't know) waiting for him was a surprise he wouldn't have expected for anything. Nero would never admit he'd been the one to need the most convincing, nor that from the get-go he'd been impressed with Dante's abilities, despite how much he loathed his show-off-y ways. In fact, it had been one of few reasons he had taken the man up on his offer.

Fortuna was dead to him, in more ways than one. His demonic heritage endangered Kyrie, to what extent he was unsure, and that made him all the more paranoid about it anyway. He could not keep his arm a secret for long, either, and there was no way in hell he could take any more sneaking around in public hiding that devil bringer, not in a place like Fortuna where the remnants of the oppressive religion still greatly lingered. But he was a young hunter who'd received his first tastes of true action, or more like the dregs from the bottom of the cup. If there was anything, any _one_ that could teach him...

Nero rolled onto his stomach, dust tickling his nose and prompting a demonic hand to rub at the offended orifice. Dante hadn't officially taken him on as some sort of apprentice or anything, no. But he might as well have. Nero was there under his roof, had to pull his weight somehow because he doubted the man would let him get by without paying some kind of rent at least. That meant he'd probably be hunting with him, or working for him in some capacity at the very least. That meant training. Time acquainting himself with the finer techniques of the craft. His beloved Red Queen had gone unused and neglected the half a year or so ever since peace had been restored to Fortuna, and the youth himself had been itching to get into a fight ever since the bustle and noise of the western world had first overloaded his senses upon arrival. There were plenty of demons here, Dante said so himself: bastards bred during the summer and still hung about during the winter, the hot middle months riling them up and the cold of the other half of the year infusing the weakened devils with even more desperation to find food, any form of suitable prey really. People were getting hurt all the time and it was terrible to be thrilled by that. But Nero hadn't grown up to be so sensitive to the plight of the fatally unfortunate.

The whole city seemed to vibrate due to his enhanced senses, a deep reverberating feeling he felt in his bones even inside, and though at first it'd been startling it was already some kind of minor comfort. Or maybe he was just that tired.

Dante laughed aloud at some unheard prompt, and Nero's eyelids slipped gently closed, inhaling deeply the faintest smells of must and pizza and... lilac?

____________________________

The extent to which Dante's demon side had been so intently trained on the newcomer had been entertaining for a generous maximum of five minutes. The territorial phase had passed quickly, giving way to a far less pleasant train of thought on the devil's part...

It wouldn't shut up about him. Dante didn't care that he was relatively calm, but that his heart was also still racing despite him seeming to be asleep. He also didn't particularly care that the kid exuded a natural scent of something akin to some kind of flower or... he wasn't actually paying attention. The voice in his head rambled off in a warped, baritone mutter, relating to its human half detail after detail after useless detail about his physical condition, namely that arm of his. A sigh escaped him, and his attempt to drown out the talk with another few swigs of beer were, in reality, frustratingly futile.

It also didn't help that Trish was paying a visit, or would be sometime that day. He'd feigned acceptance in a manner so painfully obvious he thought she'd get the hint in an instant, had even laughed at her offer to stop by as if he were foolish enough to think the woman was merely kidding; then again, she probably _did_ get the hint and it only further fueled her drive to show up and spite him anyway. She was still there to, mainly, see Nero however, apparently curious about the kid for reasons beyond him. At least most of her attention wouldn't be on him, in that case.

Would be a good time to ask her opinion, though... his demon had been going a bit haywire since he'd driven to the port to pick the kid up in the first place. Maybe it'd just been the sudden appearance of a fellow male demon, and maybe his own inner devil just didn't quite know how to respond; Dante couldn't blame it. He didn't think the punk would take him up on his offer, but there Nero was, sleeping in the bedroom just down the hall from his own. The weight of having a roommate apparently hadn't sunk in for Dante yet... though his demon was still having a heyday in its own right, delving right back into its long-winded rambling that didn't quite die down until the telltale engine of a motorcycle approached outside and finally gave way to silence.

"So where is he?"

Pale blue eyes didn't bother scrutinizing the woman, Dante merely jerking his chin in lazy indication of the stairs as he gazed intently at his beer. With a hum she crawled past, moving as if to join the kid upstairs before pausing suddenly, foot on the bottommost step.

"And, why exactly call me?"

Oh, great.

"Thought you might wanna know he was shacking up here. No point in not telling you, right?" Dante answered, finally breaking for eye contact as he shifted his position ever so slightly; setting his drink down, arms moved to fold behind him as his head inclined, completing the perfect picture of content relaxation. She'd showed up of her own accord, and if she wanted to stare at the kid while he slept, then that was on h-

"If you were nervous about something, all you had to do was say so," Trish responded in kind, tone almost hauntingly even as she approached him once more and parked her rear on the edge of his desk. His frown didn't escape her, though amuse her plenty it did. His foot twitched in her peripheral. "So what's on your mind?"

"Nothing's on my mind."

"Did I come all the way out here for nothing?"

"You came out here to see the kid," Dante retorted as if he might convince her, voice sounding strained as if pressed out through slightly gritted teeth, though he was going to continue his casual schtick it seemed, and soon it was as if the momentary blunder had never happened. The demoness quirked a manicured brow in utmost curiosity.

"So, who's making you more nervous-" Trish paused, leaning forward to snag the beer can from the other end of the desk (and catching Dante's eye taking a peek at the generous display of bosom as she did so.)  
"-me, or the kid?"

Dante was a hard one for any person to see through. When he wished to conceal he did so with a natural ease that almost unnerved even Trish of all people; years of bottling emotions for the safe expenditure later had altered the once brash young demon hunter into a relatively cool-headed character who only got more relaxed with the more he had to hide. But that day he wasn't even trying that hard. It wasn't difficult for Trish to figure out; whatever was on his mind he seemed to _want_ her to know, even if he was too... what, _embarrassed_ to say so? It was kind of cute. In a frustrating sense.

"Mm." She took an almost timid sip of beer and, finding it cold enough to her tastes, a longer swallow soon followed, accompanying Dante with a brief and fortunate reprieve from her prying tongue. Oh, but not long enough.

"How old is he, anyway?"

"What's it matter to you? Planning on seducing him? Didn't take you as the cougar type."

"I have no such plans to seduce him."

Dante's eyes, now permanently open, narrowed ever so slightly at that. He moved with an almost dangerous slowness, legs uncrossing and boots lowering gently to the wooded floor in what Trish assumed was little more than a showy attempt to dishearten her teasing. But she remained unfazed, maintaining eye contact with the son of Sparda even as she continued sipping away at his drink, legs crossed at the knee, free arm lent behind her to support her slender frame.

"You seem tense. Worked up. That his doing?" The devil clad in red seemed to freeze at her words, eyes moving side to side as if he were quite literally reading her words before him, searching for the true meaning behind that accusatory tone. "Admit it and it'll be far less embarrassing than this, Dante. This whole situation of yours... extends far beyond what _happened_ in Fortuna. Doesn't it?"

Yes, as of late Dante had proven quite the enigma. But Trish of all people could read him like an open book even still, and derived the most twisted of pleasures in watching him squirm whenever she called him out on something, especially those secrets he'd tried most desperately to hide. It seemed like her words struck, too; he leaned back slowly in his chair, his expression finally relieved of tension, and his lips once more spread into a grin, though his eyes roamed anywhere but back onto her.

He'd thought she'd known back then and this practically confirmed it: Dante had never been subtle when he was, gross and disturbing as it sounded, _lusting._ But that's all it was and had ever been. Despite Nero being young, and despite Dante himself holding a particularly weighty preference for females, even the veteran hunter had to admit: Nero had a sort of charm about him, an air that, coupled with his appearance, could maybe even be considered... attractive. Maybe. 

But Trish was reading too far into it, taking the hasty actions and reactions of his inner devil to be some form of damning evidence against him (like he'd done anything wrong anyway!) What was he to say? Try as he might, he knew how to deal with her; he had to play her game, or else she'd take his outright resistance as undeniable proof of something far, far worse than mere physical attraction. He'd fallen into that trap five times too many, though not nearly in any situations remotely similar to this...

"I'll be sure to keep an eye on you and make sure you don't do anything rash," she crooned, and it was only once her voice had snapped Dante out of his thoughtful stupor that he noticed her crossing the threshold, helmet under one arm and keys in the opposite hand. The grin that curled at thin, painted lips strained his nerves even further, though the revving of her bike drowned out any and all objections and expletives hurled her way.


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently 'posted soon' means two months, holy shit.
> 
> This chapter was originally gonna be considerably longer (and come out much sooner than this) but life gets in the way at the most inconvenient of times, right? Anyway, actual plot stuff starts happening in the next chapter and hopefully won't be too confusing; this will probably be one of those stories where some things go unexplained until the very, very end. Thanks for being patient with me.

That low thrumming of the outside world had blown up by mid-afternoon the next day. Nero hadn't meant to sleep in, had even set several alarms; even after the dismemberment of the Order, he was still in the habit of waking up early anyway, six sharp. 

Instead he'd been stirred from the most restful sleep he'd gotten in years by a hard jolt to the bed. Nero'd been conscious of it only for a second, a momentary interruption of a pleasant dream that he was soon sinking right back into... another jolt, harder, and a dry, scratchy groan arose in the youth's throat. _"Buzz off,"_ he nearly croaked, but the words died in his throat, dissolved into nothing more than low grunts as the bed trembled and bounced around. Anger built moment by moment, pulled further and further from dreamland until he bolted upright in an instant, eyes snapping open, a sharp breath expelled in frustration and nostrils flaring. Suddenly he felt as tired as he had the day previous, as if he hadn't slept away near fourteen hours, though he was awake enough to hear the engines of trucks and buses and all manner of vehicles rumbling by. Damn it, it felt like the whole place was gonna collapse in on him…

"Thanks for the warning," Nero mumbled, and a demonic arm rose to scratch at the nape of his neck. He sighed, hunched forward and took a moment to let himself adjust to the noise, the tremors in the floorboards, before he stood to dress. Yeah, Dante hadn't mentioned anything about that. Maybe he just forgot — the man had been living there for years after all, probably just got used to it. Nero would give Dante the benefit of the doubt.

First things first, to clean that damn room. It took hours of toiling, digging away at the mountain of Dante’s junk until the miscellaneous items had been mostly organized and pushed aside enough to see the floor – _a miracle,_ he thought with a snort – and he promptly took a break, trotted into the still-dark hall. Maybe Dante was still asleep...? A brief knock on the door yielded no response; either he wasn't home, _was_ home and was just ignoring him, or he was just that heavy a sleeper. Somehow the latter seemed a legit enough answer in its own right.

With a yawn he slunk downstairs to fetch a bite of breakfast (lunch?) and his thoughts cut off abruptly. Nero stumbled sideways from the staircase, hands roaming the desk in search of the ringing phone, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from it: his face grew pale at the sight of wide, glossy eyes rolled up towards the ceiling; he recoiled at the stench, rusting iron and something– something straight up _rotten,_ a horrendous smell that hadn’t quite offended his nose before; and the dark, almost black liquid that had once seeped across the floor left the youth feeling bile rising in his throat. Clumsy hands stumbled upon the rotary phone and he jerked the receiver from its cradle.

“Hello?”

_“Devil May Cry, Nero speaking.”_

“What?”

_“Y’know, if you’re gonna be answering the phone for me, you should do it right.”_

“What the hell is this?”

_“Staying here means pulling your weight, and so when I’m out you’re gonna have to an–”_

“Dante. What. The hell. Is this… _thing_ in the office?”

_“... ah.”_

The other end of the line fell silent, and the tension in Nero’s brow grew tenfold with every moment, He heard quiet rustling, probably Dante moving, and muffled background conversation. Damn man was probably at a bar or something, Nero wouldn’t put it past him to go for a drink or three so early in the day…

_“I’m gonna explain something.”_

“Dante–”

_“And you’re gonna listen up, ‘cause I’m only gonna say this once.”_

#### Dante's POV, eight hours prior

That conversation... with Trish. The vixen was prone to getting under his skin, it was nothing new, so why the hell was he _still_ so engrossed in that conversation? He was of half a mind to be pissed at her. Probably what kept him so _awake_.

A muffled moan broke the silence of his room. Dark, as always, curtains drawn to block out both the sun and the noise, though the latter could never be helped enough, even if after so long it barely even bothered him anymore. He'd gone to bed and awoke at the mercy of the same headache, not like it would change much. The world didn't stop turning just 'cause he didn't wanna get out of bed…

He rolled over to face the nightstand, paused a moment to let his single uncovered eye focus enough on the clock — seven. Seven in the damn morning. A louder groan, more akin to a whine than anything, bubbled in his throat and Dante burrowed deeper into crimson sheets.

He should get up. Work out the stress. The past few days had been so slow he'd been steadily driven stir crazy, and getting his blood pumping was the best remedy. It was practically slow motion, the way Dante sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, dressed himself and moved through his bathroom routine, not like he was in any rush anyway. The kid could take any calls for him, right? Demons weren’t too active early in the mornings, thankfully.

It was only when he’d started driving that Dante realized it’d be a good idea to find some sense of where he was _trying_ to go. Eh, despite the traffic, the city limits were never really busy, perfect for a drive in that kind of weather — wasn’t a cloud in the sky to be seen and the sun warmed him right down to the bone.

The drive helped, too, the wind in his hair and the rush of scenery distracting his mind long enough, even if he couldn't shake that lingering feeling, some anomaly just on the edge of his senses, a sight just out of eyeshot, sounds just out of hearing range... a gloved hand tightened around the steering wheel. He was damn tense and needed to blow off some steam now that he was awake enough for it. Inner demon getting worked up, probably over Nero, and that was the end of it. It had been years, after all, since he’d shared a space with anyone.

His eyes snapped up, breath hitched in his throat, and Dante rammed against the brakes — the world exploded in slow motion, car jolting forward, tires squealing, shattering bones and a loud, wet, squelching _smack_ hit his ears. He hadn't seen anything, the road had been empty–

Fuck, he'd _hit someone._

The hunter hit the pavement in an instant, flinging the door wide and scrambling to the front of the car, nearly stumbling in his shock. His body was on autopilot but even instinct couldn't keep him from freezing at the sight, blood spattered across the grill and the body huddled up in a twisted heap on the asphalt. He could've sworn the stench of decay already permeated the air, right alongside the smell of hot iron from the blood paving the road; in the intense heat, the wave of nausea that hit him head-on was all the more devastating. 

It didn't look human. Maybe it was the awkward angles of broken arms that jutted out at odd angles like the legs of a spider, or the sharp jagged bones that stuck up in the air, shockingly white. A hand ran through snow-white locks and a shaky breath passed Dante's lips. No, it was too weird, the road had been empty beforehand and of that he was _more_ than sure...

It was still empty. The air had settled down, the refreshing breeze just a few minutes earlier already gone, the place devoid of life at all, aside from him. The churning of his stomach, unhelped by the heat and the smell, could've knocked him off of his feet probably, if only the _body_ itself had been different. Dante didn't know that his demon side understood something he himself didn't, caught something in the air that his human half had been too preoccupied to notice, much less confront at the time. But it was enough to quell the uneasiness in his stomach. The son of Sparda worried for a second that the sting of human death had, somehow, grown lost on him after so much time in the demon-slaying business.

He had to... _do_ something with it. You couldn't leave human bodies lying around like roadkill. Dante balanced on the balls of his feet and knelt down beside it, a hand rising as if to touch it before, decidedly, thinking better of that. Okay, it was straight up revolting. He'd seen a lot in his life, but even at the speed he was going, he wouldn't have _obliterated_ somebody like that, not unless–

"Already injured," Dante murmured. “Maybe even almost dead.” But it didn't explain the sudden appearance. Or why it already _reeked_. Or how it could have walked at all, considering the state the body was in... a sigh left him. One mystery after another. 

He pivoted slowly on a heel to survey his surroundings, scrutinizing the shimmering distortion of rising heat and wondering if anyone could be hiding out there...

#### Nero's POV, present

"You did _what?"_

_"Look, so maybe I didn't know it at the time, but my inner demon or whatever you wanna say was keeping an eye out for me."_

"You... you hit someone. And left their body in the road."

_"Didn't bring it with me, not yet. Would've been a whole lotta trouble if I did, in hindsight."_

Nero teetered on his feet. Did that mean...

"Dante... is this–"

_"The body? Don't be crazy."_

He sighed in relief. Somehow not knowing where _this_ body came from didn't bother him, though maybe he was simply okay with knowing it wasn't Dante's little hit and run victim. He fell into the desk chair and let his head roll, arms dangling to the sides for a moment as he processed it all. The receiver cradled between ear and shoulder fell eerily silent, then more shuffling and quieted footfalls from Dante’s end.

"Um–"

_"What?"_

"'Yet'?"

_"Ah... yeah."_

#### Dante's POV, seven hours prior

This... wasn't supposed to be there.

From the highway ran a beaten little path, patches of dirt streaked with blood — the scent was unique and strong enough for Dante to pick up and follow with ease once the visible blood ran out, and he strayed further and further from the road, picking his way through waist-high grasses and over ditches. His brief little trek lead him straight to a treeline, only... 

As many times as he'd been up and down that road, and as little as he paid attention to the scenery, he knew there was no _forest_ around here, not for miles. Immediately his senses went on high alert, his first instincts proclaiming it might be some sort of anomaly. There could be a breach into the underworld somewhere around that distorted this world's geography or, hell, maybe the whole thing was even some large… mirage. The devil hunter himself could feel _something_ alright, a disturbance in the air, something like a prickly, tingling feeling on the nape of his neck. Like electricity. Naturally a man like Dante was pretty sensitive to such active demonic energy, but… it still felt different. Wrong.

A sigh escaped him. A drive, all he’d wanted was a damned peaceful drive in the countryside and now — no, no, he wasn’t gonna get upset. If he let himself get upset, a foul mood was only gonna make everything a whole lot worse… gloved hands settled on his hips and he paced, scrutinizing the treeline, every leaf, shadow, any detail his eyes could pick up from the distance. He wasn’t gonna chance getting too close to it just yet.

A nearby stone, snatched up from the ground and chucked straight at the trunk of a tree – his impeccable sense of aim never failed him – to prove his suspicions. The trees shimmered and rippled at the disturbance before settling once more, melting back into the lifelike image they’d presented earlier; knowing he was right didn’t really assuade his nerves. 

“Could call Lady,” he mused aloud to himself, only to realize a moment later how horrible an idea it was. What would she say anyway, implying he could find a phone around there to call her with? ‘Sounds interesting, have fun, don’t die and hurry back ‘cause I’ve got a job for you?’ He doubted she’d lose a wink over it. Trish, too, reliable as she could be in the most dire of circumstances, had adopted a similar way of toying with him (probably got it from Lady, too) sometime recently and hadn’t even bothered to answer most of his calls, knowing he’d try to find her in person if anything was _really_ serious enough to need her help with. 

And then he thought about Nero, probably dicking around at the office with nothing to do, and decided the punk was probably his best bet, that he’d at least try getting a call back to Devil May Cry.

He’d stopped halfway back to the road.

All manner of demons, naturally and artificially created, weak and powerful, sentient and rabid, had fallen to his sword over his lifetime. Though varying little by little from species to species, the scents and auras a demon put off, the ones Dante could detect anyway, were arguably largely the same from one another. But the sensations that enveloped him, knocked the wind from his lungs, were not.

Searing pain in his chest, skin burning like someone had just lit him on fire, only _holy shit so much worse,_ immobilized him too fast to react, not even to the alien feeling of so much pain. And the light, too, a blindingly bright light — it felt like someone had just shoved the whole goddamn sun in his face. In an instant he crumbled, felt the earth under his hands and feet but couldn’t see anything, and every agonizing second stretched into what damn well felt like eternity. Never felt so much pain… nothing had ever been strong enough to hurt Dante so much, not even when he was young, when he was weak.

By the time it had all subsided, he wasn’t even conscious to feel the relief.


End file.
